Tess Gerritsen - Peggy Sue Got Murdered

This is not healthy, Novak. Not healthy at all.

And you're already in over your head…

Rockbrook was one of those anonymous suburbs that lie on the outskirts of any large city. It was a white-bread world of trim lawns, two cars in every garage, yards strewn with kids' bicycles. The house where Herbert Esterhaus lived had no bicycles in the yard, and only one vehicle in the carport, but in every other way it was typical of the neighborhood-a tract home, neatly kept, with a brick walkway in front and azaleas huddled on either side of the door.

No one seemed to be home. They rang the bell, knocked, but there was no answer, and the front door was locked.

"Now what?" said M. J. She glanced up the street. A block away, two boys tossed a basketball against their garage door. The buzz of a lawnmower echoed from some unseen backyard.

They circled around to the carport. "His car's here," Adam noted. "And that looks like today's paper on the front seat. So he's driven it today."

"Then where is he?" said M. J.

Adam went to the side door of the house. It was unlocked. He poked his head inside and called out: "Herb? Are you home?"

There was no answer.

"Maybe we should check inside," suggested M. J.

They stepped into the kitchen. Again, Adam called out: "Herb?" A silence seemed to hang over the house. And the sense of dead air, as though no window, no door, had been opened for a very long time.

M. J. spotted a set of keys on the kitchen counter. That struck her as odd, that a man would leave the house without his keys.

"Maybe you should call Thomas," she said. "Esterhaus might have left you another message."

"It's a thought." Adam glanced around for a phone; there was none in sight. "I'll check the living room," he said and headed out of the kitchen.

Seconds later, M. J. heard him say, "Dear God."

"Adam?" she called. She left the kitchen and crossed the dining room. Through the living room doorway, she spotted Adam, standing by the couch. He seemed frozen in place, unable to move a muscle. "Adam?"

Slowly he turned to look at her. "It's… him."

"What?" She moved across the living room. Only as she rounded the couch did she see the crimson stain soaking the carpet, like some psychiatrist's nightmare inkblot. Stretched across the blood was an arm, its hand white and clawed.

The hand of Herbert Esterhaus.

The flash of the photographer's strobe made M. J. wince. He was a crime lab veteran, and he strode casually around the body, choosing his shots with an almost bored detachment. The repeated camera flashes, the babble of too many people talking at the same time, the whine of yet another siren closing in, left M. J. feeling disoriented. She'd been to crime scenes before, had been part of other, equally chaotic gatherings, but this scene was different, this victim was different. He was someone she knew, someone who, just a few short days ago, had met her handshake with one of warm flesh. His death was far too close to her, and she felt herself withdrawing into some safe, numb place where she floated on a sea of fatigue, supported by Adam's arm, by his strength.

Only when a familiar voice called to her did her brain snap back into focus. She saw Lieutenant Beamis moving toward them.

"What the hell happened?" he asked.

"It's Esterhaus," said Adam. "He phoned me this afternoon. Said he wanted to talk. We came by and…"

Beamis glanced at the dead body sprawled on the couch. "When?"

"We got here around five."

"He's been dead awhile," murmured M. J. "Probably early afternoon."

"How can you tell?" asked Beamis.

She looked away. "Experience," she muttered.

The Rockbrook detective approached and greeted Beamis. "Sorry you got dragged over, Lou. I know this one's technically ours, but they insisted I call you."

"So what've you got?"

"Two bullet wounds in the chest. Took him down fast. No signs of forced entry. No witnesses. ME'll have to do a look-see, give us an approximate time."

"Dr. Novak says early afternoon."

"Yeah, well…" The detective shifted uneasily. "They're sending over Davis Wheelock."

Because they're not about to trust me on this one , thought M. J. The Rockbrook detective was a cautious cop. He couldn't be sure of M. J.'s role in all this. Her status had changed from ME to… what? Witness? Suspect? She could see it in the way he watched her eyes, weighed her every statement.

Now Beamis began to ask questions, the same ones they'd already answered. No, they hadn't touched anything except the phone. And, briefly, the body-to check vital signs. Events were dissected, over and over. By the time Beamis had finished, M. J. was having trouble concentrating. Too many voices were talking in the room, and there were the sounds of the crowd outside, the neighbors, all pressing up against the yellow police line.

Esterhaus's body, cocooned in a zip-up bag, was wheeled through the front door and out of the house, into a night blazing with the flash of reporters' cameras.

Adam and M. J. followed the EMTs out of the house. It was bedlam outside, cops shouting for everyone to stand back, radios crackling from a half-dozen patrol cars. Two TV vans were parked nearby, klieg lights glaring. A reporter thrust a microphone in front of M. J.'s face and asked, "Were you the people who found the body?"

"Leave us alone," said Adam, shoving the microphone away.

"Sir, can you tell us what condition-"

"I said, leave us alone ."

"Hey!" another reporter yelled. "Aren't you Adam Quantrell? Mr. Quantrell?"

Suddenly, the lights were redirected into their eyes. Adam grabbed M. J.'s hand and pulled her along in a mad dash for the car.

The instant they were inside, they slammed and locked the doors. Hands knocked at the windows.

Adam started the engine. "Let's get the hell out of here," he growled, and hit the gas pedal.

Even as they roared away, they could hear the questions being shouted at them.

M. J. collapsed back in exhaustion. "I thought they were going to keep us there all night."

He shot her a worried look. "Are you all right?"

She shivered. "Just cold. And scared. Mostly scared…" She looked at him. "Why did they kill Esterhaus? What is going on, Adam?"

He stared ahead, his gaze locked on the road, his profile hard and white in the darkness. "I wish to God I knew."

They arrived home to find Thomas waiting for them.

"Mr. Q., thank heavens you're home! The reporters have been calling-"

"Tell them to go to hell," said Adam, guiding M. J. toward the stairs.

"But-"

"You heard what I said."

"Is that a… literal request?"

"Word for word. Just say, go to hell ."

"Goodness," said Thomas, sounding most uncomfortable. "I don't know…" He watched them climb up to the second floor landing. "Is there anything you'll require, Mr. Q.?" he called.

"A bottle of brandy. And answer the phone, will you?"

Thomas glanced at the telephone, which had begun to ring again. Reluctantly he picked up the receiver. "Quantrell residence." He listened for a few seconds. Then, drawing himself to his full and dignified height, he said: "Mr. Quantrell wishes to convey the following message: Go to hell." He hung up, looking strangely satisfied.

"The brandy, Thomas!" called Adam.

"Right away," said Thomas, and went off toward the library.

Adam turned M. J. gently toward the bedroom. "Come on," he whispered. "You look ready to collapse."

It was not an exaggeration. He'd never seen her so white-faced, so shaken. The loss of her house, and then this murder-it was a cruel one-two punch that even a woman as strong as she was couldn't withstand.

Even worse than her look of exhaustion was her look of fear. It did not befit this woman; it sat upon her shoulders like some alien cloak, which even now she was trying to cast off. But she couldn't. She didn't have the strength.